


The Empty King

by FanficsbyVe



Series: The Children of Gwyn [4]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7411280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficsbyVe/pseuds/FanficsbyVe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwyn looks back on his life. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty King

The Vanquisher of Dragons. The Lord of Sunlight. The King of the Gods.

In life, Gwyn had many titles to go by. He had done what no other man had done when he challenged the Everlasting Dragons. He had seized Godhood with his own hands, brought disparity to a dull, gray world and built his own kingdom over the bones of his enemies. If one man could walk to his own death, it would be a man like him.

Yet here he is, having chosen a fate even worse than death and he feels nothing but pain and guilt. Locked in the Kiln of the First Flame, serving as precious fuel to keep the primordial fire lit a while longer, he is consumed by the sum of his actions and how, in the end, it amounted to so little.

Oh, he has done many great things. He was nothing when he came upon the Flame, naught but an insignificant giant-like wretch with barely any self-awareness before he gained his Lord’s Soul. To have become a God, the Lord of Gods, worshipped and respect by all on splendid throne in a lustrous city, was a splendid achievement indeed.

Yet, as he sits here now, he realized that it was never enough. Deep down, he was always afraid that he would return to nothing. To that barely sentient wretch, only different from humans by its inability to hollow. He fought to keep from reminding himself that he had ever been that miserable creature and his entire rule had been driven by that fear. 

Nothing ever silenced it, however. No amount of victories or gold or women. Nothing could quell his fear of nothingness, at least never for long. There was a reason the battlefields were red with blood, why his treasury was bursting and why all his children had different mothers. 

His children…

The longer he burns, the more his memories fade and the more the nothingness he once feared becomes reality. The victories. The gold. The women. Even the memory of acquiring godhood is taken away by the fire, as he burns into a husk barely resembling the man he once was. All he truly, clearly, remembers now are his children and even those memories are wrought with grief.

He loved them, his sons and daughter as well as the one in the Ringed City, more than he could ever put into his words. He would have given his life to keep them safe, to see them happy. If only he could delude himself that he does now by sustaining the Flame, but he cannot bear to fool himself. 

His fears, his bottomless desire for more, tainted his relationship with them as well. In his desperate struggle to maintain dominion and subjugate the fire, his children became tools and he lost sight of who they truly were. He never saw the bravery in his oldest son to stand up to any foolish plan, only defiance. He never saw Gwynevere’s political brilliance, only unbecoming independence. He never saw Gwyndolyn’s magical talent and cunning, only a deformed and weak child.

He had failed to recognize all the good things in his children, lost in his fear over nothingness instead of acknowledging their talents, and what did it get him? His oldest was gone, banished and expunged from history after rebelling against him. His only daughter had fled Anor Londo long ago. His lastborn remained behind, more fascinated by the power he left him than feeling any grief over his departure.

Looking into the churning flames, this is the thing Gwyn regrets more than anything. More than linking the Flame to humanity or all his foolish plans to keep it alive. His ambitions and bane caused him to lose the ones he loved most and that thought is unbearable.

There are many things he wished he could have done. Many things that might have allowed him some measure of peace. Many things he wished he would have said to his children before he sacrificed himself to the Flame.

He would tell Gwynnant how proud he was of his conviction and steadfastness and that he should have listened. He would tell Gwynevere how proud he was of her cleverness and to never lose her iron will. He would tell Gwyndolyn how proud he was of his magical abilities and that he was as worthy an heir as his siblings. As for his other girl, he would tell her she was always a Princess to him and that he should have brought her to court.

He would tell his children that they should be proud of themselves. That they have all accomplished much in their own ways. That he was not always a good father to them and that they have become wonderful people in spite of this. Most importantly, he would tell them that, above all, he loves them.

Yet now, he cannot. It’s too late to do any of those things now. His children are all long gone, out of reach. Some may not even know the fate he chose for himself. He is truly alone and that fact is more agonizing than the burning he endures.

The time for reconciliation is long gone. All that is left is regret. Regret and fire.


End file.
